Did I mention I'm yours?
by DarkChakotay
Summary: Sherlock and John story. Some investigation, some hurt, some love, some family, some sex. All the good stuff. Warning for slash and self-harm.
1. Chapter 1

**I have a friend that hates fanfictions because he thinks we always make wimps out of super heroes. I really try not to fall in that category. But I can't help it if everyone is a human being and has flaws. Sherlock and John are humans as well. I believe a hero is someone who does what they can, not what they want. And they're not braver than any other human being. They're only brave five minutes longer… So here it is. First fanfic with the new Sherlock. You know the BBC one in 2010. It's brilliant really. Warning for ****slash**** [I mean, John and Sherlock not a couple? Really? I feel it sticks out like a sore thumb.] and ****self-harm**** [You've been warned.]. But anyway, here it is. Enjoy! And reviews are the fuel for a writer. If only a line or an alert. ;)**

**Note: The italics are the thoughts of the characters.**

**Ownership: If I owned Sherlock and John, there'd be a big fat gay wedding, I guarantee! However I did invent the plot of this story of course. Just borrowed the characters from BBC.**

"You had no right!" John replied absolutely furious.

"You have a right to know." retorted Sherlock ever so calmly.

"I don't care about her past! Everyone deserves a second chance."

"Is that what you believe?"

"Yes." John said firmly, reducing Sherlock to silence.

_How could he?_ John thought.

"God knows where she is now! And it's all because of your I'm-so-smart façade. You don't care a minute about Sarah, or me for that matter. So LEAVE MY RELATIONSHIP ALONE!"

"But she's two timing you, John."

"GIVE IT. A. REST. Why do you care anyway?"

To that, Sherlock could not answer. Not that he really could not, but he would not. He would not unveil his true feelings for the angry doctor. What chance did he have? _John's straight. He likes women. That's all right. I'm better off without that kind of hassle anyways. I'm married to my work, _he kept repeating in his head.

"Mind your own business, Sherlock!"

_John likes Sarah._ _That's all._ He had to deal with it. He did not want to let go, but he had to or he would loose John…and _that_, he could bear.

Sherlock kept staring off into space. John was getting impatient.

"Aren't you gonna say something?"

Not a movement.

"I'll help you out: 'I'm so sorry, John. I won't do it again.' would be in order in this kind of situation where…"

He was cut dryly by Sherlock.

"Caffè Frateli." he uttered sharply.

"…Wha? What's that?"

"The Caffè Frateli on Wigmore Street. That's where she'll be. Go get 'er." John was stunned for a second, recovered and headed for the café without a word, but slammed the door loudly making himself crystal clear.

He was mad. Why did people get so caught up in relationships? So complicated. It was pretty simple really. You were either friends or enemies. And for the most part, enemies. That was all.

Truth was, Sherlock felt… woeful. Again had he upset John against his best efforts to be considerate. Sherlock was like a kid who did not want to upset his parents, but could not help getting into trouble. Sadness filled his heart: he did not want John out of his life. All he could think was being in the same room as John. Possibly sit close to him… maybe even touch. Or not. He did not exactly know what he wanted. But he felt bad. Not so much so he would regret what he had said. No. He never regretted anything he said, because he always calculated so precisely. What went wrong was not his business. He was a sociopath after all. A high functioning sociopath, but still a sociopath. Plus, he was right!

_I disappointed you. That's good. Good deduction, yeah._ Of course, it was. He was always right. However, Holmes could never be what Watson wanted him to be. He saw it in his eyes sometimes, often actually: the amazement, the surprise, and the admiration. He lived on it. He existed for that thrill that people provided him. John was always so genuine, so easy to fool, yet a fast learner and always caring for him. Nonetheless, the result was always the same. People, normal people that is, could not survive in the toxic environment Sherlock created. How many times some acquaintances had told him "Piss off! Mind your own business."? He had gotten the message. He was not wanted. By anyone.

He understood people and at the same time he did not. It was like mathematics in his head. Thoughts of the criminals added, their errors subtracted, evidence multiplied, all the tiny parts of the puzzle divided. The unpredictable became logical, every little detail and habit striking. All so obvious. How was it that people did not observe? They could not even say what was in their pocket! What Sherlock could not understand either was all the rubbish of social relationships. He was so bad at that. He only spoke his mind. How could that be wrong? They were only making it more difficult for themselves really.

How could he possibly tell John? Tell him what though? _Stay with me… please? You will resume residing on Baker Street forthwith. You will remain with me until further notice._ That sounded good! Or not? Relationships! He saw them mapped in his head. The influences and points of contact. They all merged and made sense. But when it came to actually making a move, it all got mixed up. He did not understand why people were so stuck up on certain ways of saying this or that. It was difficult to process. And he did not actually care.

Actually this time, he tried to care and blew it, as usual. Whenever he tried to help, he would ridiculously fail. Sarah was not faithful to his John. She did not deserve him. He could not make John see apparently. But imagine the ways he could make her suffer for her infidelity. The down side of being so smart is that you get so many ideas of getting your way. So watch out for the nerdy in your class.

John was different. He was better. _They are lives at stake Sherlock, actual human lives…just so I know, do you care about that? Will caring about them help save them? No. Then I'll continue not to make that mistake._ What good did it do to care? He cared before…but only pain and death resulted. He could do something about it only when his head was clear and focused. That's how he could work at his best.

_Is that news to you?_ God, it hurt him when John said _no._ Somehow, he wished John had said _yes_, because then, it would have proved that he understood him better than any other human being. Well, he did not quite understand himself. How could anyone?

At least he had a friend. Maybe not anymore… He was always sure about John's loyalty, but now, not so much. Could he be? Or not? He would come back for some explanation since he left his cane. He wished John would come back, forgive whatever it was he was supposed to forgive and give Sherlock what he craved the most…touching.

When was it the last time anyone had touch him? He had touched John a few times to prevent him from hurting himself or when he stripped him from imminent bombing. At that point, he did not only touch him because he was protecting his friend, but because he actually wanted to. Want to feel flesh and skin under his fingers. Heat against his body. John's breath on his skin. His voice. Sherlock wanted to hear his voice, his cries, his sighs. He wanted his all.

_I have date._ John had announced proudly. _You know two persons who like each other, go out and have fun? - That's what was suggesting! _he answered surprised. But his surprise came from the fact that John had engaged in another relationship than their own. He had assumed that his, them, was…well, going on and exclusive. But then…he had gone. John had gone. And gone again. And he was now mad. Really mad. Mad at him. He had done it again. Somehow. He never could make anyone he loved happy. He never could! Ever! He was the worse friend one could have.

He hated himself for that. He hated himself period. Oh God, he hated himself. And that hurt. But it did not hurt enough. No. For that, he should be punished and no one ever did that, did they? He deserved to suffer. His ancient demons were raging in him. Fighting to get out. Fighting to be brought to life again. Sherlock had these flashbacks popping in his mind, despite his best efforts to stay focused. He saw blood and cuts. His arms itched of craving. The craving of his youth. Younger, drugs were not available. It only came later on. In College. When he was with Tommy. Aw, Tommy. He would have done anything for him. But never told him. Tommy was nice to him. Just like John was. Tommy was handsomer. _But John is more interesting_, he thought with delight. _Long term that's even better._ Despite his urge to sabotage John's relationship with Sarah, he had kept himself from any scheme planning. He had tried that and… well, Tommy was not here anymore to testify, was he?

His engorged eyes freed large tears rolling on his dry cheeks. His throat contracted in a knot. The muscles in his neck tensed up and his arms tingled down to the tip of his fingers.

It hurt, but the hurt was good. He was punished by his own body. He felt alive! So alive. But it was not enough… He could not stop staring at his bare arms. The pale and tender skin with marks of the past. He remembered every scare, every cut. Every single one of them. He rememebered. When. How. Why… The sore under his fingers felt immensely orgasmic. When he was not in this mad state, he was actually ashamed of the scares. For that, he always wore long sleeves. They were not so visible, but just enough to be seen if one looked closely. People were blind. They really were. It made him even sadder. Aarg! The damn itching would not stop. Quite the opposite. It got worse and worse, like a thousand burning marbles rushing through his veins making his breathing chopped. The tears had stopped flowing from his eyes.

His mobile shook. John! Hope! Maybe he'd forgiven him! Maybe, he was coming back to him. "Don't expect me tonight. I'll be at Sarah's. Don't bother calling or texting, I'm not interested in your explanation which you probably had no intention of giving."Sherlock smirked. _Bull's eye._ John bitching him was almost too beautiful. _At Sarah's?_

So it was all forgive and forget? The girl did not deserve him, why could he not see that? Another inner voice asked him _Do you think __**you**__ deserve him?_ _No. Of course not._ All he deserved was respect of his work and genius. It was all he did with his life anyways. He did not expect anything else.

His phone shook again. "Oh and Sherlock. Fuck you." _I wish_, he thought. That last text gave him the last blip of courage needed to do what he was craving to.

He rushed in the kitchen, precipitated towards the kitchenware. He pulled out the drawers violently to find sharp objects. Something that would slice up easily, but not too easily. No yet. The fact was that he knew perfectly that razors were his best option. But part of the thrill was to feel the urgency in every cell of his body. His heart go wild. His head spinning. Thinking about it. Every single thought revolving around the want and need. Revelling in the pain of not having it immediately. Hunting for suffering. The necessity building up in his system. The electricity in his arms. God it hurt.

He let out a cry of despair and the sound of his own scream scared him. He remembered Mrs. Hudson. He should be careful. She was taking her evening tea and would be all ears.

He tried different knives, but the blades were either not sharp enough, or they would wound him too much with their little teeth. Screws were good for the pain, but they scarcely scratched. This needed blood. Lots of blood.

After a few superficial lacerations (only to warm up really), he finally got to the _good stuff_ with satisfaction. He went to the bathroom and opened the cabinet underneath the sink. He hastily rummuraged through it with his hands. His right hand withdrew, clenching to a small black bag of velvet. Sherlock's accomplice, partner in crime that he dashed to unzip, revealing its long, shiny, sharp blade.

Sherlock admired the object for a moment. "Such a long time old mate",he whispered nostalgically to his childhood instrument of torture and friend, ironically.

He took it in his hand and played a few tricks with it before clasping against his white skin. He caressed the pale epidermis with the cold blade. Shivers down his spine. Exquisite.

Then he turned the knife perpendicularly and oh! so very carefully slid the blade enjoying the pain and the opening of the skin. It was only when he saw the blood that he started shaking and gasping the air he had not realize he had been holding.

His heart pumping wildly, his head getting dizzier. All his reason screamed for him to stop. _Reason..._ he laughed. _What a stupid thing._ _Stopping you from getting your way._ Something in him just _wanted_ destruction, suffering, punishment… He deserved this. His body even trembled of desire, the craving boiling his blood. His chopped breaths resonated in the bathroom. He sat back comfortably on the floor, his back leaning on the bath tub, his legs, butt and hands touching the coldness of the ceramic on the floor. He swiftly cut another time…and another…and another..and another…and an another. He blinked rapidly not to pass out. The last thing he wanted was to loose consciousness, miss all the fun and be found by someone. No, certainly not. He stopped a moment to regain his full consciousness.

This state, this rush never felt so good and terrible at the same time. It had been so long since he had been in this fabulous feeling. Drugs were too dangerous now. They were detectable in the blood, and symptoms were visible. He was closely checked and he knew it. Drugs were not an option anymore. Nicotine patches were good, but for thinking. This was his new drug. Or rather an old one. A good old one of his childhood. Sometimes he wished he would not loose consciousness so quickly, so he would be able to hurt longer. He liked how for one moment, nothing else mattered in the world, but his bleeding arm. He liked that he felt so much, all of his physical body and everything else faded away. Complete nothingness invaded his mind and for a moment, he felt peace. It was not about suicide. Really, it was not. He wanted to live, like everyone. But the hurt made things bearable. Finally he had paid his debts, paid for what he had done. It allowed him to get to his own superior self.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 already. I'm starting the investigation. To follow Sherlock's line of thought, I resolved to visulize it through numbers, or rather steps, and I put arrows to demonstrate consequence. It's not that complicated really. You'll see. Enjoy!**

Footsteps woke him up. John's footsteps! He opened his eyes to find himself curled up on the cold tiled floor. He had drifted and slipped down the bathtub. His harmed arm was outstretched. Some blood had dried and formed a blot on the floor. Not too much. He had scarred over quickly.

_(1) Make the blood, the fabric and the knife disappear. (2) Cover up the wounds. (3) Find a credible occupation such as taking a shower. No. I'm not wet. Flush will be enough._

"Sherlock!" Sherlock heard sadness in the voice. He had been right. Of course, he was always right. _This enquiry would go a lot faster if you would take my word as gospel._ Why didn't people just observe?

Exiting the bathroom, he headed for the kitchen, as normally as possible that is in his over-pompous kind of way. He past right by John, ignoring him.

_(1) Dawdling feet → discouragement → he broke it off. (2) Shaky hands? John doesn't shake → stress and uneasiness. (3) Blood on joints, considerable lesions → anger from the break-up resulting in brutality on his own hand with rough surface → serious emotive eruption → hit was most probably on a cement wall given the small cavities → not in Sarah's flat → most likely after the argument, on his own, in the small and dark street on the south side, away from sight → Blood is not dried, but is coagulated → reachable by foot → Vine street. (4) Shoes are laced, but heel crushing the end of the shoe → he left in a hurry. (5) Jacket slightly placed a bit more on the right → she tried to hold him back by the sleeve. (6) Quiet choppy breathing → anger, but most likely he ran, as indicates his dusty shoes → since the streets of London are pretty clean and it was not raining today, he walked through gardens. (7) Nostrils exempt of congestion and clear eye → no crying → to be expected later on. (8) Has his wallet, surprising since he went in such a hurry, and a receipt in his pocket, by the shape of it, but no bags → which brings us to the rectangular shape in the jacket → he brings his part of the rent and bought a ticket to Paris → Yes Paris, since it's the place where he won't find any relatives (he's avoiding his family) and where he knows a bit of the language → he's been there often, I know, I've seen the pictures on his computer._

"Keep the money of the rent, you'll need it in Paris. And do me a favor, don't linger in that vile Vine Street at night, especially after a row. It's dangerous. There's disinfectant in the cabinet." Of course, there was. He had just used it on his arm.

Sherlock sat down to opened up the newspaper to fake reading it without looking up at him.

"How could you possibly…?" John started exasperated before stopping himself, looking down and chuckling. "Oh Sherlock. I'm gonna miss you, you know." he said with a faint smile.

"There's been a murder in Tate Modern. A man hanged, cut in pieces and nailed to the wall. Visitors thought it was a new piece of art, until it started rotting."

"Oh! This is absolutely horrifying!" the doctor exclaimed. "So much for modern art… Everything was so much better before the 19th century." he whispered.

"No one was there at the time of the murder and the CCTV doesn't show a thing apparently."

John was silent.

"You can get a refund on all plane tickets with British Airlines if it's in the next 48 hours." assured Sherlock.

"You want me to come with you."

"Of course. I'd be lost without my art historian!"

Surprised then amused again, John suspected: "Is this your cure for break-up?"

"Do you believe it'll work?"

"You're not gonna ask about it, are you?

"No."

"Because you don't need to, you already know." John let out.

"Yes."

Silence. John reflected for a moment, turned around and headed for the bathroom. Likely to clean up his hand. That's when Sherlock dared raise his eyes to the sad doctor. He was sorry for him. He really was. This was surprising really. He actually cared. He suddenly remembered what Moriaty had said: _I'll burn the heart out of you…_ No need. His heart was not even his. It was John's. Maybe he should tell him…

"John…" The detective let out with more strength than he had initially intended.

"Hmm?"Already opening the cabinet.

"I'm sorry." The cabinet closed boisterously. A silence and: "No you're not."

Sherlock squeezed his wounded arm to generate an acute pain. He deserved that. He did not answer.

"Can you hold that for me?" said a voice just next to him. The detective started inwardly. He had been caught in thought and had not seen the wrapped hand reaching up for him.

He let go of his arm suspiciously quickly causing John to pay attention to the creased sleeve.

"Is that blood?"

_Think fast._ "No. Ketchup."

"We're out of ketchup."

"I went out."

"You have not left home." John said with assurance.

Sherlock looked at John surprised.

"Your shoes… They were pointing East when I left with the laces crossed on the left side. They have not moved. So you have not been out. Plus, you don't have any money." stated John proudly. He felt he had triumphed on Sherlock. A huge grin drew on his face. Haha!

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Perspicacious, are we?" he said daunting.

"You're not the only one who can think?"

"Well, not anymore apparently. I didn't know genius was contagious."

"It's called learning Sherlock."

"Should I be worried?"

Chuckles. Sherlock thought of ways to distract John from the arm. But John was faster: "Now let me see that." reaching out for Sherlock's arm.

"It's just a scratch, le me help with the bandage." Panic was slightly getting to his guts. John was intelligent. He really was. Oh god, he loved it. Shivers of exaltation. Oh! This should not be happening. He should not feel this way. _Focus!_ He had to get out of this one. Better defence is a good offence. So he thought of hitting where it hurt: Sarah. But he could not.

"If it was just a scratch, you'd show me."

"Says the doctor who bashed his hand against a wall in the street."

"I was upset!" John said insulted. _Gotcha!_

"Didn't think you could be so violent." Of course he knew. He was very well aware of the somewhat volatile character of his companion. Military experience just worsened that innate strength.

John tried to snap back, but was speechless. He shut his mouth and blushed. _Touché._ In fact, they were quite alike. They needed each other to take care, because they would not for themselves. Sherlock sighed. Self-destructive nature always needed friendship to put a stop to it.

"Let me help." Sherlock said softly.

John was so amazed by the detective's gentlemanlikeness that he remained silent and only watched him secure the compress.

"Don't look so surprise, doctor. You're not the only one who can care for patients."

John chuckled. He was the only one laughing at Sherlock's little jokes. The only one able to stand his manors. The only one still here by him. Even Mycroft had given up.

"What's wrong?" the doctor asked with a worried look.

"What?" uttered Sherlock abashed.

"You're not yourself."

_Or I'm too much like myself and that's the problem. _He gave a quick look at his arm.

"Why don't we go out and eat, there's nothing in anyway." Sherlock stood up avoiding eye contact. He took his coat.

"Sherlock?" insisted John.

"There's a nice pub where an irregular migrant Chinese man had been accused of murder…" He was babbling of course. He had lost track of what he was saying, the moment John had walked in the room. He could not help but give a quick glance at Watson's physiognomy. He liked what he saw. Unfortunately however, because it was hopeless. Quickly squeezing his arm again, he covered his manoeuvre by putting his coat on and tied his scarf.

"How about steak? That's what you would have order in France anyway." he affirmed putting his usual over confident self forward.

"That's a lucky guess!" John said, following him through the hall.

_I never guess._


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm in fire! I know. Much inspiration. It's not turning out the way I expected though. I'm not sure anymore where I'm going with this story, but what I know is that it's going swell. ^_^ This is a shorter chapter and the two following should be shorter too, but it's mainly because I change scenes. It's easier if I simply change chapters. This is most of the investigation I think, because then it's back to some hurt and love and family?... Ouh! Spoilers! Take care and enjoy.**

« So what do you think? Moriaty? » asked Inspector Lestrade.

_(1) Body is cold. (2) Dehydration. (3) Livor mortis is already there → more than 12 hours. (4) Rigor mortis → that's because of the rise of the acids in the body. (5) Abdominal distension → had eaten not long before dying. (6) Pestilential smell → at least 3 days, top 5 because no green spot on the abdomen. (7) Half of the pieces of the body on the floor, other half nailed to the wall forming together a circle with a spot in the middle (which is the head) → mark of the Turko-Serbian mafia in London → the victim's actions were unforgivable and he is given as an example… But this is huge. It didn't need to be so public… → His family has disappeared as well obviously. (8) Victim is dressed in a priest's suit, but was not a priest → Right hand suggests manual work, very precise something like artisan. (9) Legs show heavy transporting, like transporting heavy boxes._

"I can't believe that for entire days people thought it was art!" said John mesmerized.

"Look Sherlock. I'd rather have Moriaty behind the bars instead of on the loose having _fun_ with you. Do me and everyone in London a favor and get your genius working to catch him."

"This is not Moriaty. It's the Turko-Serbian mafia."

"There's a Turko-Serbian mafia?" John cried.

"They're long gone. Where's the left arm?" added Sherlock, before heading for the nearest window.

"What? That's it? Long gone, no hope?" grizzled Lestrade.

"Did you inspect their boat?" asked Sherlock.

"What boat?" But Sherlock was already down the stairs. He went towards a boat on the River Thames. The inspector and John followed him into the boat.

The interior had been destroyed, chairs and tables upside down. The buffet was full of blood, but the arm was no where to be seen.

"Oh my god." whispered Watson.

"Here's the location of the murder." affirmed Sherlock.

"I'll send forensics in to take a sample of the blood." added Lestrade.

"It's only his. You won't find anything else." assured the detective.

There was a hole in the wall.

"But you'll find traces of …" and he took some white dust with his finger, tasted and added "cocaine."

"How did you know about the boat?" inquired John.

"The lesions of rope friction on his right hand. Obviously."

"Of course." the doctor replied ironically.

"The victim was part of the mafia, but tried to sell cocaine himself and kept it in his boat. They found out and gave an example to all of their other sellers knowing that the best way for the lesson not be forgotten was to put it in museum. But they didn't find what they were looking for…" Sherlock got closer to the refrigerator. On it was drawn with blood a circle with a spot in the middle. "Their symbol." He pointed out to John. He opened the fridge. "There's your arm." John bowed and looked. There was a cut arm in a long black sleeve (the sleeve of the priest uniform) and a small note was in the hand: "An artist is never ahead of his time but most people are far behind theirs. Keep hands off. U zdravlje."

"You may take it for your blog. That's good stuff for a title, John." joked Sherlock.

The inspector suggested: "So? Don't you think that's Moriaty? He's mocking you."

"I'm afraid not this time." Sherlock smiled. "Come on John, we're done here for now."

Discouraged, Lestrade looked at the scene with his hands on his hips. Unbeknownst to him, Sherlock swiftly took a vase, put it in his coat and headed out. John saw. He stopped, debated inwardly and resolved to keep it to himself until he had the opportunity to ask his friend about it.

They took a cab and headed for a shop.

"What's with this mafia? Do you think we can stop them?"

"We won't catch who did this, but we might be able to slow the marketing."

"And the vase?"

"Well, anything looks good on you…"

This last statement did not fall unto deaf ears. Their eyes met. Something passed. Like electricity. John with his frowned eyebrows and Sherlock with his lips parted. It just came out. It did not sound that bad in the detective's head, but out… it was too revealing. Sherlock turned his gaze away, embarrassed. This little glimpse into Sherlock's mind was a real revelation. The doctor pursed up his lips and adopted a serious look. _I knew it! So much for I'm-married-to-my-work. Let's not humiliate him more than he is. The conversation must turn back at me. Confession time._

"I'm sorry. You were right about Sarah."

"My mother passed on one valuable piece of relationship advice. She said 'Son, in a relationship you can either be right or you can be happy. You'll soon find out that you don't care that much about being right.'"

"Wow. This sounds odd coming from you." John let out in sheer surprise.

"As a little kid, I suppose I was a little weird. And still is." tried Sherlock.

"You have a very wise mother."

Silence. Sherlock could not stand the uneasiness anymore and changed back the subject.

"I've seen this vase before. They're using the porcelain manufacture to get their product through."

"You know, you should tell Inspector Lestrade."

"Not… quite… yet. Eventually, yes."

"You're never gonna listen to me, are you?"

Sherlock smiled. "People often say I never listen… or something like that…"


	4. Chapter 4

**Like I said, very short chapter, but the compensation is that I've put up two of them. Ain't that great? It's more about the scene change really. It just makes more sense. Thank you for everyone following this little story of mine. I'm glad you're enjoying it as much as I am. Special hi to Kevin. Wink wink.**

Of course, Sherlock had been right. The police had apprehended a few dealers and picked up £ 20,000 worth of cocaine. Considerable, but no where close to the real thing.

John had seen how Sherlock had looked at the cocaine packages with envy, but turned away rapidly. Was that what Sherlock was hiding? Back to drugs? But John would have detected it. Sherlock knew that too and probably would not risk it. Then again, when you're an addict, not much can stop you.

He had noticed that Sherlock always wore long sleeves. Up to now, he had supposed it was to hide the nicotine patches. Not so sure anymore. If Sherlock had succumbed to temptation, he needed to be around to help him out. Sherlock had enough addictions as it was. No need to be back to drug as well. _I better keep an eye on you._

"John!" called Sherlock before crossing the threshold of the living room buttoning his sleeve. _Long sleeves again._

"Yeah." uttered John not moving from the comfortable armchair.

"I'm going to meet with one of my informant. You fancy opera?"

"You like opera?" John asked surprised.

"Not really, but there's a different crowd. It makes things more interesting for observation."

_And you like opera… Ha! You are sooo gay, Sherlock. But opera, really? That's too cliché, even for you!_

"Sure why not?"


	5. Chapter 5

**For some reason, I reckon loving opera is the gayest thing ever. Or rather I feel like it's a cliché. When my ex told be that opera was the greatest art, I thought to myself: "That's too gay to be true…" And it strengthened my belief of that gay cliché opera loving. Now don't get me wrong, opera is fine. I just thought I should explain why John thought it was the gayest thing ever. Chapter 5, already! Yay! I'm thinking a total of 9 chapters. I still got to adjust and correct them, but the first draft is done. And I've started a new as well. Not necessarily connected, but same themes. I'm giving it a last shot before university starts again. :D**

**Oh and I found a joke this morning. You probably know it, but I still wanted to share it with you. Here it goes :**

_**Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson went on a camping trip. After sharing a good meal and a bottle of Petrie wine, they retire to their tent for the night. At about 3 AM, Holmes nudges Watson and asks, "Watson, look up into the sky and tell me what you see?"**_

_**Watson said, "I see millions of stars." **_

_**Holmes asks, "And, what does that tell you?"**_

_**Watson replies, "Astronomically, it tells me there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, it tells me that Saturn is in Leo. Theologically, it tells me that God is great and we are small and insignificant. Horologically, it tells me that it's about 3 AM. Meteorologically, it tells me that we will have a beautiful day tomorrow. What does it tell you, Holmes?"**_

_**Holmes retorts, "Someone stole our tent."**_

**Lol. Enjoy and take care.**

Something was wrong._ (1) The doorkeeper of the section was still at the door as if he was waiting → he __is__ probably waiting for something indeed. (2) Lights in the corridor were out, not off → they have been tampered with. (3) The knob. Scratches on it. Thin and around the knob → electric wires while turning the knob → they used a screwdriver. (4) The informant was late → not that surprising really, but Sherlock would have been informed → the informant could have been warned, but has most probably been captured. (5) The doorkeeper had shoelaces not conformed to the Opera uniform. → This is a trap!_

Sherlock exited balcony and stopped by the doorkeeper to ask the way to the restroom. The man indicated the way (the wrong way, Sherlock knew). Just as Sherlock was turning around, the doorkeeper swung a bar to the detective's head who fortunately dodged it.

_(1) The assailant if left-handed. (2) He is armed with a secured gun → it would take at least 3 seconds to be cocked. (3) Assailant is probably not alone → 3 issues where reinforcement could come from. (4) Opera at the second arioso → music is too loud, no chance of being heard. (5) When came in, doorkeeper was leaping with the left leg → good thing to start with → hurting him by stepping on his toes than his thigh on the side. (6) His head is slightly bead onward by approximately 7° → back pain possibly from the shoulder blade up the neck → hit both shoulders simultaneously, if adversary is still persistent. (7) Only apparent exit: the left door, issues head to dead ends → probably framed with the guards only waiting for him → best issue: balcony itself, very noticeable and perturbing for the audience, but efficient._

Holmes proceeded with his plan: crushed the toes, kicked his thigh on the side, knocked out with straight palms on each shoulder, ran to the balcony, apologized to an aged, frightened woman and slid down the curtains to the lower balcony.

He headed for the door behind the seats, but when he got there buffy security officers were expecting him. "Somehow I feel you're not here to invite me over for the evening tea…" Sherlock teased.


	6. Chapter 6

**This is getting easier every time. I've been bitten by the bug.**

**This is also a small chapter but the next two are longer. I'm not sure I can make for tonight. I might, but I'll try for tomorrow. Thank you for reading and enjoy!**

_Damn Sherlock! He left me again! Always the same story... When will Sherlock start thinking of me? God I hate opera! Some plumpy woman shouting herself hoarse of which no one understood a word. Why was it in Italian anyway? Sherlock got me into this. Damn him! Why did I agree to this anyway? Wasn't I supposed to be mad at him? And here I am, back with crazy Sherlock who dragged me into this. Boys will be boys, and Sherlock will be Sherlock. But then again, I was willing. God it's wonderful to be with Sherlock. But he's not here!_

_How about practicing his deduction abilities? Sherlock said that this was a different crowd, an interesting place to observe. All right then. Let's try it. Well, obviously people in the opera are richer than average. With high concentration of gays too. Or is that too cliché? Is it? Focus John!_

_Ok. Man on the right. Classy suit, very nice by the way with the light waistcoat. Hum. Well, clean obviously. No jewels, no make-up. Probably with his wife at his side. Hum… A nice watch on the left wrist. So right-handed. Right. That's… Well that's all right, hum… Closely shaved. What else? Oh! The shoes! Sherlock would look at the shoes. Well, again, classy black. Not a scratch. What else? The guy is rich, right-handed, straight and classy. Big deal! Any idiot would have guessed that! How does Sherlock do it?_

_All right, bad luck, how about the young lady on the left? Oh sexy lady! You doing anything later on? Haha. She's way too young and sexy to be here with this old fellow. Either escort or he's a sugar daddy. Is that a judgment? Hang on! Who's that bloke coming down the drapes of the balcony! What a show-off. What's the idiot thinking anyway? That one would be a good one for Sherlock to analyse and see if… Hang on! SHERLOCK! Damn it!_

John stood up and got out of his row, apologizing to everyone about the disturbance and headed for the balcony anxiously.

When he got close to it, he heard fighting sounds in the lodges. Dashing to the back rooms, he opened every door quickly. The members of the audience would give him a questioning or reproachful look. _See what you make me do, Sherlock! A fool out of myself._ He finally found Sherlock heavily hurt.

All the adrenaline left in his body rushed to his head and heartbeat hurried. Quickly providing first aid, John spoke to Sherlock who did not answer, but was however conscious. _Head trauma for sure. No broken ribs, but several hits were administered in his stomach. That means internal bleeding. Bleeding around buccal orifice. Opened flesh on lips and nose bleeding. There is blood all over the left sleeve._ Unfastening the buttons, he discovered lesions all over the arm. Those were not fresh. Plus, the scars underneath suggested habit. Those were not inflected by someone other than Sherlock himself. Self-mutilation.

John's heart almost stopped for a second. His throat had blocked in a knot and it took several seconds before he could breathe again in a big gasp.

"Oh my God, Sherlock!" was all that came out of his mouth. He had so many questions: How? Why? Since when? What could have caused him to turn to himself? Was that over drugs? But those questions were left unanswered.

Sherlock was simply grunting, probably trying to get out of the torpor.

"Ok, ok, I'm here. Sherlock! It's me! HELP, someone! Call an ambulance." he shouted.


	7. Chapter 7

**The cat's out of the bag for Sherlock! Ouh la la! Now, this is a hard one. A new character no one has actually seen. I struggled a lot with it and I settled for that kind of personality. I find it credible. Don't hesitate to tell me what you think! For the next chapter… well, I'm quite busy on weekends, but I should be able to post it Sunday night. :D **

**Take care!**

Sherlock grunted. Where was he? Bed? No. Smell of antiseptic. _Oh God, the fight._ _So much for the informant. He's probably dead by now. It's a shame really, because he was really useful. I need to find a new informant. Either that or I could always infiltrate._ But not with John around. Yes. John was around. Right there, next to him. This smell on the right. Oh, his smell! Very masculine, but not aggressive. And this smell was the one of sleeping. In point of fact, Sherlock had observed that everyone had, not one single personal aroma, but several depending on the part of the body, the moment of the day, the emotion felt at the moment, and the state of the metabolism. Women for instance had a large panel of fluctuations of their hormones which were strongly detectable in their smell.

From afar, John smelled good coffee. Coffee all over. His coat smelled like tea though since his coat was hung next to the kettle. When one got closer to John, he emanated a smell of soap. Good Johnny. He was very clean and used that French lavender soap he ordered through internet and came in every month around the 5th. His feet smelled the new carpet. That's because John kept stoking his socks against the carpet when he lingered his feet. His fingers smelled the honeyed peanuts he kept eating secretly, or so John thought.

Somehow, John also smelled books. Surely, he had done medicine studies, so he had had his nose stuck in books for years, but not anymore… Did the smell persist even after Afghanistan? And this smell of bomb powder from war as well. It was because of a picture John always kept on him. Right there, in this wallet. It was a picture of a man in a military medical uniform. _Best friend during the war, no doubt. Probably deceased, or else, John would not keep it so close._ Sherlock had managed to infer a backstory for the man. _John met him at the infirmary, he was injured. They liked each other. The guy decided to enter nursing and ended up being John's assistant. Then the shooting. John got injured and the boy got killed. _Sherlock's reconstruction all made sense to him, especially when one looked at the second picture where they were both in work smocks and where John had a stetoscope and official documents in his hands. _Their hands are too close to be simple friends_ thought Sherlock.

Above that cocktail of smells, John had a deeper scent radiating from him. Not those superficial smells of life. Not the coffee, the tea, the carpet, or the peanuts. No. It was an aroma emanating from his very skin. Sort of male hormonal pheromones. Androstadienone they were called, of which the testosterone. This stimulated in Sherlock, who was patently attracted to the doctor, a rise of cortisol. This bumped up the glucose in his blood and therefore his energy. This is how Sherlock explained what is called in plain English: arousal. Different from the adrenaline rush he got from his work, but this attraction was just as much thrilling and lasted longer…

But back to John's scent indicating that he was asleep next to Sherlock. From the smells around him, Sherlock also figured he was in a hospital. Oh and another smell…oh, so very familiar. Please no! Don't move, don't move!

"Good morning Sherry!" said an old lady's voice.

John woke up to the noise. "Whaa?" he groaned blinking at the bright light of the hospital.

"Oh come on Sherlock, I know you're awake. Don't think you can fool your own mother!"

_Damn it! _Sherlock opened his eyes first on John's hands on his thigh and lifted his gaze to his tall, slim (obviously) mother.

"Would you please give us a moment, Mr. Watson?" she asked dryly, but not impolitely.

"Hmm… yes, of course! I'll get us some coffee." John babbled before leaving the room, still with sleepy eyes.

If Sherlock could have, he could have crossed his arms and turned his head away to sulk. But tubs and pain prevented him to do so.

"Don't you dare pouting at me like that, young man!" she cried.

"Shouldn't you be at your yoga class at this time, mother? Or did you break up with your chauffeur?" And looking down to her shoes, "oh, but you did."

"Well, guess what Sherry. The hospital calls me saying my son was attacked and hospitalized. Not only that, but he had 'proceeded to self-administrative treatment'" she pronounced very carefully.

"They've got a new expression for it every year…" he joked.

"I'm not amused!" she shouted. "Nor impressed by your little prowess."

"I'm not trying to do either."

"But to your lover yes, isn't it?"

"I never wanted him to find out."

"But you secretly wished he would. That way, he could come and save you from yourself. Do you think that's fair to your nice boyfriend?"

"He's my flatmate!"

"Yet you're crazy about each other and live in the same flat. You know, just because you don't have sex, doesn't mean you're not lovers."

Sherlock lift his chin up, looking more and more like a teenager.

The mother sighed. "Why are you not more like Mycroft?"

"Mycroft is useless and boring."

"At least he has a decent job with the government."

"Again! Queen and country! You're acting as if what he does is honourable."

"And he doesn't rely on destructive techniques to get attention."

"It's nothing I can't deal with. And I don't need no attention!"

"Tut-tut! Don't need attention! Careful with your language. And last time you said that, it didn't end well, did it? Now you're going to pull yourself together and tell our handsome man how you feel. Not that you're any good at it, but the way he is with you, I know he'll figure it out. Because you're destroying yourself, Sherry! You're going to stop this NONSENSE because it's killing the little baby of mine!" She started crying and turned away, facing the window.

Silence.

"Do you wish again you didn't have me?"

"I beg your pardon?" she said utterly shocked. "Is that what you think? How can you possibly say such a…"

"By counting. That's how I figured out. I was an accident wasn't I? You didn't want me in the first place."

"I would never think such an atrocious lie! You're going to take that rubbish out of your system right now! I can't believe you even thought that I could possibly think that way. Is that what this is about?" coming now to his side.

"But you do wish I wasn't so much like dad was. Don't you?"

She sighed and chuckled. "It'd make things easier, yes. But you know, that's what attracted me the most in your father. And I never regretted a second of it."

"Yet, you got divorced. It doesn't look very bright for me."

"Don't say that! You know better than anyone that we're not forced by genes. You can have it your own way. You already do actually." She just looked at him tenderly. "That's something you should be proud of. As I am." A moment of silence. "Plus, you're not your father. You've got some of me too you know, 50% of it as I recall my genetics correctly." She chuckled. "And your John sweetheart is not me. He's good for you. And he likes being with you. You're both very alike and different. You have a few issues to work out, like your self-destructive nature, since no matter what I do, it doesn't seem to be helping. For heaven's sake! You never let me in and you're always getting so outrageous with your siblings!" she said annoyed. "Please, let Mycroft know about you. It's my only way to get news from you. I only get to see you when you're on the verge of death in the hospital!"

"I'm fine! I'm nowhere close to death."

"Until you're dead and leave your poor mother to cry her eyes out. Ah, Sherry…" she sighed. "You're so absorbed and so forgetful…" Her eyes filled with tears, but contained them and smiled.

"Oh please, don't gimme that!"

The mother knew it was useless coming upfront with the problem. It wasn't Sherlock's first time. There was a time when she felt the cutting had gone out of control. And finally, Sherlock had managed to keep out of cutting and drugs for quite some time. She felt this was a slight relapse. She had seen worse and saw he was slightly opening up. She was not about to blow it up. She opted to keep the conversation light. "Come over for dinner once, with your boyfriend. I'm hoping you're planning on having kids at some point, because…"

"MOTHER!" he cut.

"What? A mother has a right to hope and sponsor! I already knitted those beautiful tiny slippers. I'm keeping them for your first born." She smiled and it radiated love. "Plus, I've never organized a gay wedding, it's gonna be so GAY, I promise! Gayest wedding ever!"

"MOM!"

John came in with a nurse.

"I'm sorry sir." The nurse said. "I need to take out some blood samples and take out some tubs"

They did so under Sherlock's mother's worried eyes, and the nurses left. John was reading Sherlock's file. "I'll run a few more tests and then you'll be able to go home with some follow-up therapy."

"I don't need that!"

"Yes, you do." John said without raising his gaze from the paper. He did not know how to take it. He did not know if he actually had to take it. Sherlock was not actually his responsibility. There was Sherlock's mother after all. He did not want to pry, and at the same time he was itching to say and do something.

"I won't go." crossing his arms now that they were free from the tubs.

"You could have KILLED yourself! You idiot!"

"What Sherlock means…" the mother quickly tried to contain the imminent explosion of anger of the doctor she had felt was building up. "is that he's been seeing therapists, literally dozens of them throughout his life. The schools always wanted him to abide by their advices despite my instincts and it only got worse. He only needs someone who cares about him and someone that he can care about. Someone he can count on. I wish that was myself, my dear doctor, or Myrcoft, but it seems he chose you for that."

John frowned. "Yet, I did not stop it from happening."

"You're not here to contain his volatile nature."

"I'm still here." murmured Sherlock.

"I know, I know Sherry. But I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to your boyfriend."

"I'm not his boyfriend."

"Whatever name you gays put on it then! You do everything upside down anyway. You start living together before dating. You start as a team rather than a couple. And you even have sex on the backside."

John's eyes widened to this last description and his mouth opened in sheer surprise.

"Good heavens, my dear boy, don't look so tragic! I'm sorry if I'm too graphic for you. Why don't you and I have dinner at mine sometime. I'd like to get to know my son's _flatmate_, is what he called you."

"Don't you already know everything concerning my person with a simple glance at me."

"Pretty much, but that doesn't mean I know everything or that I don't want us to be friends. You'll learn more of him from me than from himself."

"That's probably true…" John said thoughtfully.

"I'll make you a steak. Your favourite I believe. I'll also have some of those honeyed coated peanuts you like so much, but keep eating secretly."

"And I don't want to know how you know that." John declared truly.

She chuckled. "Younger, I was like you, John: normal. And then I met that man, oh! so very special, and I got a lot of practice. Especially with the kids I've got. I have to!" she winked at him with a huge smile.

John laughed too. She was nice. But back to Sherlock.

"Not that I want to cut his precious moment between you and me, but we've a serious issue here."

"Are you talking about you and my son getting married, because I know the perfect place to…"

"God, no! I was referring to…"

"The cutting, yes I know. I know too well." And she stayed silent for a moment thoughtfully. "I'm Dorine Holmes by the way." She said offering her hand.

"I know, I'm the one who called you. We're not gonna talk about it, are we?"

"John, listen…"

"Self-harm is serious and I'm saying this as a doctor and as a friend."

"And there is no one more qualified to help my little Sherry with this than you are."

"You don't seem to be worried about it at all!"

"Of course I'm worried! I'm his mother! It's my job to worry. But I also know how he gets to that point. I know that this is one of his many weaknesses. I also know what makes him do it and what makes him stop. I wish I could make it stop permanently, but I know it's one of his struggles and you should be attentive. Because he doesn't let me in anymore." Her voice shook. She pulled herself together and added in a whisper: "But he was doing so good this time, I almost forgot about it. And that's since you're there. I know he plunges back from time to time. And I'm confident, it'll be better." she said looking at John lovingly. Then she continued louder: "You're releasing him now right? Take good care of him. You're the only one who can." She went to the bed, stroked Sherlock's ruffled hair. "And you Sherry, call me or I'll send Mycroft to get you."

"Oh God, please don't."

She kissed his forehead. "I love you, okay?" again a kiss that he tried to avoid. "Come round sometimes, okay? Don't leave your old mother to die by herself." And she was gone.

John was agape. _Hell of a woman._


	8. Chapter 8

**Already? Already at the paroxysm of my story. Only one chapter after that one to wrap it up. Though I already have another one, an OS, like a continuity. But I won't post it under the same title. So if you're interested, it should be here within the week. If not the day after tomorrow. Plus, I can't possibly stop writing Sherlock/John fanfics, it's too great! **

**All right, so back to chapter 8. Well, you know, I hesitated very long on how to bring this one. I hope it's not getting schmaltzy. But it's love… :D I don't think this should be rated M. Even though I go far, it's not smut.**

**Enjoy!**

Days were passing slowly since Sherlock was back from the hospital. John took care of him silently. He had removed every cutting object of the house. He knew hiding them would not actually prevent Sherlock from reiterating. Someone who actually wanted to cut, would find a way. Plus he couldn't figure out how to cut steak anymore. All the same, it took a great weight off his mind. He also received Mycroft regularly. At first, Sherlock would display a sulky mood and would not speak a word. After some time however, he became intrigued and even nice to John. He started to eat decently and he would even joke sometimes. John remained silent and simply did what was to be done. Sherlock could not figure out what John was trying to do. And that was a lot to say! Sherlock clueless? That was practically impossible. Yet, nothing would shed light on John's line of thought. On one hand, his silence could indicate that he was mad at Sherlock, but on the other hand, John was making a fuss him. Sherlock thought of waiting for some time. Everyone spoke eventually. Every "normal" human being gave up at some point and said something. But John would not! One day, Sherlock finally surrendered on fathoming out John's thoughts. Whatever it was that was in that mind of his was not getting out of it. John closing up to him? Oh no. That could not be? This thought provoked a pang of guilt in his soul.

"John… I'm sorry you had to find out about my…err…inclinaison, or rather weakness, the way you did."

John sighed heavily and cried loudly:

"9 DAYS! It took you 9 bloody days to open up! Should I wait another 9 for an explanation?"

Sherlock looked down and whispered "No." like a grounded kid.

John waited a moment and softened. "I'll put the kettle on then." But before he could head for the kitchen, Sherlock caught him by the waist, his second hand on his nape bringing closer the two warm bodies until contact. Their abdomens touched first, then the bosom, the legs and feet, and finally their mouth collapse. First it was like a butterfly kiss, but the fire in Sherlock asked for more. He felt all the signs in his body. _(1) Increase of dopamine levels creating feeling of euphoria. (2) Increase of adrenaline and norepinephrine provokes pitter-patter of the myocardium. (3) Restlessness. (4) His every thoughts and preoccupations revolving around the object of his torments. (5) Blood flow increase in the brain, and down there as well, obviously… (6) Serotonin levels are lower → this would explain why he had not needed nicotine patches this week. (7) Endorphins and hormones vasopressin and oxytocin also flood the body at this point creating an overall sense of well-being and security that is conducive to a lasting relationship._

This was how Sherlock analysed his lust to be with John. All he could think was John. He wanted to touch and kiss every inch of his skin. He wanted to have the doctor, to be with him. He wanted to be sure that John was his, all his. _No one else's and that, now and forever. This sounded cheesy. _What he wanted, is to feel John's erection against his thigh.

But the only erection he could feel was his own. It wrung his heart. He suddenly suffered the constriction of shame. His feelings that were disclosing for a moment withdrew and locked back in the safe of his heart.

Sherlock did an unexpected about-turn to face the fireplace and brought his hands to the wall supporting his weak legs. He breathed deeply, repressing all his urges. "I'm sorry." he whispered screwing his eyes with one hand.

Yet, he was the one surprised when John violently turned him around, compressing Sherlock against the wall and clasping to him. Sherlock suddenly felt with delight the hard member against his thigh. John's mouth seized Sherlock's lips and his hand streamed down Sherlock's belly to his underwear.

Caught out by events, Sherlock did not immediately react and John took advantage of that moment to drift to Sherlock's neck. All Sherlock's sensations finally unleashed. His whole body loosened up and he let himself be John's.

Feeling this sudden change in Sherlock, John asked between two kisses "How long have you been holding back?"

"Far too long." Sherlock answered before taking John's face in his hands and finding the way to his mouth.

Without breaking the kiss, John took down hastily Sherlock's tuxedo. Then he ripped the shirt open breaking out the pressure buttons.

Regaining complete control of his body, Sherlock pushed away from the wall and lead John with steadfast resolution. Submitting to the obstinate detective, John impacted on an armchair and Sherlock stripped his way down to his briefs.

Seeing his tall lover in between his legs, the panting doctor caught Sherlock's head brought to it his own, arguing: "No, no, no, no… (catching his breath) Not like this. (breathing again) This is not exactly what I had in mind. (smiling)"

Sherlock stopped a moment looking at John's swaying body. John wasn't sure if he had screwed up the moment.

"You won't settle for a blowjob as a first time, will you?"

"Would you?"

This brought a huge smile to the detective's visage and he started kissing the doctor in the neck, lovingly.

John's hands ruffled Sherlock's hair. John moaned indicating his pleasure as well as his wish to go a bit… deeper that this. Sherlock smiled, getting the message, and brought John to him. John stood up, but did not stop touching and kissing Sherlock.

"Real bed please." John ordered in between his teeth.

"You're not the boss." Uttered Sherlock before pinning John against the wall making it tremble with the frames.

"Ho, ho!" John laughed and Sherlock chuckled. "And neither are you." and John threw his lover to the other side of the corridor landing himself on Sherlock's bosom. This time, the impact was too strong. A frame fell and the glass broke.

They both froze fixing their gaze on the broken item.

"Mrs. Hudson is going to come down." Sherlock said with concern. John giggled.

"God, you look like a teenager afraid of being caught. It's not like she hasn't suspected us from the very beginning. It's not my fault you're so gay."

"I? I am so gay? First you…" Sherlock started but John cut him short.

"Look, I'm not the one who goes to the restaurant and is brought a candle for my boyfriend. Plus…" he laughed

"You speak too much." And he silenced the man by kissing him and pushed him toward the detective's room. He broke the kiss to open the door.

"And you… don't kiss enough." And pushed Sherlock the door so it would open in a slam, entering his mouth forcefully. A trinket fell down. John burst into laughing.

"Will this become a habit to fight our way to bed? I estimate several losses in the next few weeks." calculated Sherlock.

"Are you suggesting we put away all fragile objects away, like when people have kids?"

"Lestrade and Mrs. Husdon keep saying I'm a child anyway. Let's not prove them wrong for once."

"But I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock." imitated John in Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock firmly caught John's member with his hand putting aside the brief, and John gasped of surprise.

"Like I said, you speak too much." and he kissed John before he had time to return the comment, leading him to bed. Sherlock was focusing on removing all the unnecessary garments separating him from his wonderful lover, while John revelled in stroking Sherlock's hair and attaining his lips.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's voice rose from the kitchen. "Is everything all right?"

"Oh god." whispered John breaking the kiss. He looked the ceiling and Sherlock rested his head on John's panting chest. "We have to get her." John still whispered.

"You're more dressed."

"Hardly, I have a V-neck shirt, but at least you have your pants on. Plus you can always put on your robe on. It's right behind the door."

"Too far." Sherlock muttered to John's bosom.

"And you're on top."

Sherlock smiled and said: "Let's keep it this way henceforth."

Annoyed, John pushed him down the bed. "Now go!" he shouted in a whisper and then laughed.

Sherlock fastened his robe and went in the corridor to the door.

"Mrs. Hudson..." he started and he avoided a whack with a bat of cricket.

"Good heavens, Sherlock! I'm sorry. I thought you were burglar!"

Alarmed, John rushed to the door. "What is it?" He had managed to arrange his outfit, but his erection was widely visible.

"Merciful father! Boys, I-I-I…I'm sorry, I…"she was all confused and headed out.

"Mrs. Hudson!" shouted John. But she was gone.

"At least close the door!" Sherlock shouted at Mrs. Hudson and John nudged him. The steps actually came back and the door closed.

"This ruins the mood." Sherlock announced still slightly out of breath.

"Yeah. Maybe we should just make some tea." John sighed.

But when their eyes met, the next thing they knew they were wildly intertwined in each other. And then it's just rough sex… ;D


	9. Chapter 9

**This is it, folks, for my first Sherlock fanfiction. I loved it all along. Like I said, I already have another written. I just need to correct it. Hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I did in writing it. If you have suggestion or comments, please do send them. I take any constructive comment. I want to get better.**

**As for this last chapter, I was aiming for a nice ending without the Walt-Disney-perfect-ending. So enjoy and see you at the next story!**

**Dearly, DarkChakotay**

Both men were face to face, sleeping. John woke up, but did not move. He kept his eyes closed. But he started being cold and he wanted to get closer to the person next to him. That is when he remembered it was Sherlock at his side. A grin illuminated his face. He relaxed completely, smelled Sherlock's aroma and felt heat waves emanating from his resting body. However, when he listened to the breathing, it was not regular and profound as sleeping respiration.

"How many lovers have you stared at like this?" John said.

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Staring implies looking, but my eyes were closed."

"No, they weren't." argued the former soldier.

Silence.

"I'm always impressed at how you manage to avoid questions. How you divert the conversation… Can I ask you something, Sherlock?"

Sigh. "Can I stop you?"

"Can you not cut again? For me. I don't like it."

"You don't like it or it's bad for me?"

"Both, but do it for me."

"You're playing the empathy card." Sherlock stated annoyed and he looked away.

"And you're playing the diversion card." retorted John.

Sherlock looked down, probably ashamed.

"Obviously, you won't do it for yourself, but maybe you'll do it for me?" he implored.

Sherlock looked straight into John's eyes. John suddenly pitied his friend and lover. _Yes, inspector Lestrade is right. Sherlock is a child. Some see arrogance where there is courage, some see cruelty where there is terror, and some see indifference where there is… love?_

"Testing psychology 101 with me, John?"

"It has yet to be proven right on a specimen as unique as you. What do you think?"

"It might work." and his hands joined to think properly. But John saw the hands trembling and the tears forming in Sherlock's eyes.

"Aw, come here." John said to the tall man grabbing his head and bringing it to his chest. Sherlock's arm slipped around John's body, his fists clutched on himself. Sherlock clasped very tight to John who wrapped his hands around his vulnerable lover. John felt warm tears streaming down his bosom. He did not say anything, but when Sherlock's body started jerking and he heard sobs, he administrated little kisses of consolation on Sherlock's head and whispered reassuringly: "It's all right."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock cried. "It's so strong in me." Hiccups.

"Ok. Ok. It's all right now."

"I'm sorry, please don't go."

_Gotcha! _John had put his finger on it: solitude. Sherlock was afraid to be alone. Yet, this was exactly what he provoked by his character. _How can human being be so contradictory? Especially Sherlock when he tries so hard to put on this façade. _John smiled. He had realized how much Sherlock needed him. He had just realized… how he felt about Sherlock.

"Did I mention I'm yours?"


End file.
